


Responsibility

by asimpleword



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution, SLIGHT SPOILER TAGS NEXT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimpleword/pseuds/asimpleword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Thursday, and Dean's fucking freezing, but he's got no other option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Responsibility

Between credit card fraud and hustling poor saps in pool, Dean's managed to keep he and Sam from starving or having to spend too many nights in the Impala because they can't afford a motel. Because Dean isn't able to scrape together enough. Sure, Sam has his own ways of acquiring money, but the responsibility mostly falls on Dean's already weighted shoulders. He's always been the one to take care of Sam, look out for him. He knows Sam can take care of himself, but Dean still has a role to play, a job to do. Even if Sam doesn't know exactly what that role is or how Dean actually gets some of the money he does.

A job that he's always going to do no matter how trying. The damage it will do to Dean doesn't matter if he can _just_ get it done. And here he is, doing exactly what he's done his whole life. Taking care of his baby brother. He's a little out of practice, hasn't really done this much in over fifteen years, but he still knows more than he cares to admit.

It's a Thursday, and Dean's fucking freezing, but he's got no other option. He's already been kicked out of two bars on account of getting into fights with unsuspecting alcoholics he hustled, and not willing to risk being kicked out of a third. Sam's heading to the town he's currently in, expecting Dean to already have a motel for the night rented when he gets here. He's not going to disappoint. He just needs a bit more for the cheapest one in town, that's all.

Dean's already been out here for two hours, hands shoved into his coat pockets and fingers rigid from the cold. The light snow has died off, some surely sprinkled in his hair and clinging to his clothes, but the frigid weather is almost debilitating, despite how it is beginning to lessen to more manageable temperatures. The gelid brick building he's leaning on has turned his shoulder numb and insensible. He shifts, and looks up from his comfortable stare at the snow-dusted ground at the sound of scraping footsteps.

A, probably intoxicated, man is making his way by the alleyway Dean is settled in. His steps aren't the most even, but he's upright and clearheaded enough to distinguish Dean in the dingy light of the streetlamp he's under. He smiles then, wide and knowing. Despite how much Dean damn well hates it, he simpers cheekily back and cants his hips in a glaringly sexual manner. It gets him the reaction he's hoping for. He might not be as rusty as he thought. Or, this man is just desperate enough. It wouldn't come as a surprise from some asshat that would pay for a blowjob in fucking freezing weather.

"My, y'r pretty."

Dean forces a charmed laugh, though anyone paying enough attention could see the roiling bout of disgust in his eyes and the tense, coiled set to every single one of his muscles. "So I've been told."

There aren't many words between them after that, a price thrown around that will more than cover a night in a motel, what exactly this man wants of Dean. All of it dredges up old experiences, but he's always been skilled at suppressing things he doesn't want to think about. A little too much so, he thinks. The explosion that follows is always disastrous.

He leads the man further into the alley, away from possibly leering eyes and anyone who might think they can get a free show. Two roving hands follow the moving planes of his taunt body as if Dean has given this man permission to touch him as he pleases. And maybe, somehow, he has. If he's selling himself that must mean that all of him is up for sale no matter what has been paid for.

Dean swallows harshly as he lowers himself, ignores the biting harshness of the snow now seeping through the knees of his jeans in favor of working his stiff fingers at the button of the man's pants. His heart is thrumming in his throat and thumping in the pads of his fingers as he reaches for the thin tented fabric. Heated skin meets his touch, and the man jerks forward a bit with a rough, startled chuckle. Dean plants both hands on his thighs with a soft grunt to keep him from moving too much.

"Jez'z, y'r hands are fuckin' freezing."

Dean says nothing in return. His tongue is too heavy in his mouth to say much. Again, he swallows and clenches his eyes shut when two hands curl into his hair and twist around the short strands. It feels too much like he's fifteen again, dirty pervs salivating at the thought of getting their hands on him. They were all entirely too eager to have a chance with someone young enough to be their kid.

The taste of unwashed skin fills his mouth to an overwhelming extent, scalding on his tongue and disgustingly inescapable. But, damn it all, he needs the money. _For Sam_ , he reminds himself. If it weren't for his little brother Dean would have no problem settling himself across the bench of the Impala regardless of how creaky his joints feel the following morning. But he takes care of his family, and he'd give up anything for them.

And yet, he wonders what Sam would think if he were to see his big brother, on his knees with some strangers hands in his hair and their cock shoved into his mouth in a back alley while it's the middle of March. If maybe Sam'd think less of him, think he's disgusting or maybe pity him for what he's had to do. But the worst, the worst is the thought of guilt. Of Sam thinking this is his fault and Dean is doing this because of what Sam can't. And it cripples Dean so harshly that he hides this secret more than any other. He has to. He won't let Sam believe Dean's choices are of anyone's fault but his own.

He knows Sam would be anything but understanding of his . . . prostitution. Something in him recoils at the word, but it's true nonetheless (though Dean's never been good at facing things head on). Sam finding out about it would be disastrous.

The only safe haven Dean has right now is his own head, and he clings to any bit of distraction he can. Anything to keep him from how his knees are screaming at him, keep him from the man standing in front of him.

Dean's further convinced this guy is a total douchebag when he shoves forward without warning, and a horrid taste fills his mouth. He gags, but there are two hands holding him in place, and he can't do much else other than desperately swallow and try not to puke. Tears swell and fill his vision with a watery film that he desperately attempts to blink away. He's blocked out the filthy groans and breathless words of encouragement since they'd first started, but they're suddenly ten times louder. Everything is immediately overwhelming, and as soon as the hands on the back of his head loosen their grip he topples backward. There's distant laughter, but it's barely heard over his rough coughing.

By the time he gets himself under control, the man is gone and there are a few crumpled bills on the ground next to him. Shame crawls into his gut and settles as he takes them anyway, not nearly as much as had been originally agreed upon, but enough. If he hadn't felt so chagrined, relief would have settled instead, safe in the knowledge that Sam has somewhere safe to sleep tonight.

Dean picks himself up, wipes unavailingly at his throbbing knees, and scrubs harshly at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He feels . . . pretty shitty. But he shouldn't have expected any more than he got. He's lucky to have been paid at all. Some run off before he can stop them, some fight back while Dean is still getting his bearings. Either way, kindness is a rarity in this business and even more so for Dean at all. He supposes it's a pretty damn depressing thought, but he can't bring himself to care. At least not right now. The only thing he cares about is getting to the motel and vigorously cleaning his mouth and taking a shower. To get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth and scrub his dirty skin clean until it stops crawling with the ghost of a strangers touch. Perhaps, if he washes away the physical evidence, it will take his shame with it. Or at the very least, stop the constant replay of it in his head.

The water pressure in the motel is absolute shit, but he turns it as hot as it'll go anyway and scours himself until he's pink and his skin feels raw in the most unpleasant way. However, he doesn't feel as unclean as he had before. He notices as he steps out of the shower, that his hands aren't shaking as much and he can no longer feel the coldness of snow on his skin and his fingers aren't stiff anymore. Though his knees are still killing him and he knows they'll keep him up tonight, and a headache is beginning to build behind his eyes. He runs a hand over his wet hair as if it'll help soothe the pressure there, eyes shut and breath slow as he absorbs everything that's just happened. 

Nothing can erase the way he feels but time, and even then there are still some days where Dean can remember every single touch upon his skin by a stranger, the ones that have used his body like their personal toy and often treated him with nothing but disdain. Those days he remembers pain and self-loathing and shame and guilt. Those days are some of his worst. He snaps at Sam, is closed off and angry. He stews in his own misery until he can't take it and expresses his pain with sex or violence or copious amounts of alcohol; rarely tears.

"Geeze, Dean, you couldn't have bothered with a hotel less shitty?" Sam says as he steps into the room, and Dean resists the urge to bristle because _Sam doesn't know,_ he reminds himself. He doesn't know the shit Dean just waded through just to get them a room at a shitty motel.

"Well, I got one, didn't I?" He huffs, barely restrained anger just under his skin.

"Yeah, sure," Sam dismisses, and though it isn't malicious, Dean clenches his jaw as he settles on his bed.

Nothing more is said, and Dean is perfectly fine with the silence. He isn't quite up for talking, anyway.

So he sleeps, in the hope that tomorrow when he wakes up he won't quite feel as disgusting as he does now.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drafts for a while now, ngl. I finally finished it!! I know the ending isn't the happiest :c  
> If enough people want it, part two where Sam finds out + Cas? I'm still tossing that idea around a bit.


End file.
